Toy Soldier (come on home)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Sara. Papa. Papa. Papa! Papa it's me! It's Sara! Oh god Papa, don't you remember me? Papa please, you've got to know me! Its Sara remember! Remember India? And Maya! Remember the Riviana! And Emily! And the locket with Mama's picture in it? Oh god, papa please! Papa please! Papa, tell them!


**Disclaimer:** I don't own neither the book or movie rights to "A Little Princess," wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** This is a drabble meant to fit directly between the scene where Sara and her father reunite in the Randal house and when he finally recognizes her and runs out to the police car. I have never read the book this movie was based on, so the only source material that applies in the case of this fic is in regards to the movie. *This ficlet is told from Captain Crewe's perspective.

 **Warnings:** Major spoilers for the movie, adult language, WW1, battle experience memory loss, PTSD.

 **Toy Soldier (come on home)**

"Sara!"

The name was like clear water breaking. Wholesome, terrifying and clean. It was baptism. Redemption. A bloody scab healing fast as the thunder rolled like shell-blasts, echoing in the distance. It was too much all at once. He stumbled backwards, cheeks flaming – shuddering with the force of every breath - as the phantom scents of Cardamom and singed flesh threatened to turn his stomach.

"I'm so sorry!"

He had spent months trying to piece his life back together. Trying to understand what the gas had taken. Desperate for a scrap, for the smallest clue that could tell him something – _anything!_ And now he was tempted to run from it. Gripping the chair at his back with a vicious bite as the child was ripped from him, screaming. Frightened by the ferocity of the memories that came streaming back. Faster than he could handle. Faster than he could process. Faster than any man – hale and hearty - could rightly shoulder as the room exploded into a whirling frenzy of water-logged activity.

"No! No! Papa! Papa!"

His heart shattered. Cutting deep inside his chest in a thousand fracturing pieces as her broken cries rang out. Filling the spaces between heartbeats with a torment that far surpassed the darkest moments of his recovery. Ushering in the doorman of suffering as an expression he didn't recognize – agonized and wrecked – pulled at unfamiliar muscles and sinew.

 _But why?_

 _He had no idea what was happening._

 _No idea why he felt so- so-_

 _Oh._

What had once been a blur, a singular impression of the man he'd thought himself to be, soared back to him in pieces. Rewriting itself in less time than it took for his expression to change. Giving meaning to what existed beyond that of mere words as the pitching despair of the girl's screams seemed to rise above even that of the worsening storm.

The epiphany was already in full swing, frisson-fast and heady when Ram Dass appeared at his side. Silent and unjudging but electric with the same realization that was firming through him as he looked up at the world with new eyes.

Every word she'd issued – now experienced in seconds old hindsight – was akin to a fresh blow that had the power to send him reeling. Quickly overtopping that of uncertainty and self-doubt as the haze thinned, clearing like the freshness of a northern-born wind cutting through a cloud of poisonous gas. Stiffening his back with a confident, careful strength as every instinct he possessed – everything he was – reached out. Unfurling like an exotic midnight bloom desperate for the warmth of the sun.

 _Sara. Papa. Papa. Papa! Papa it's me! It's Sara! Oh god Papa, don't you remember me? Papa please, you've got to know me! Its Sara remember?! Remember India? And Maya! Remember the Riviana! And Emily! And the locket with Mama's picture in it? Oh god, papa please! Papa please! Papa, tell them!_

Sara.

 _Sara._

 _Oh god!_

 _His little girl._

 _His little princess._

There was a roaring in his ears. So different from that of diving planes and whistling shells. So different from the screams of the dying, distant fires and the murky wet of sick-lined trenches. He didn't have words. In that one glorious moment there was nothing but a name. A face. A flickering reel of memory that followed down through the years only to stall in favor of real time. Fading like radio static as a calloused hand reached out, eyes falling on the swinging glass doors as he took one step, then another.

And before he could internalize the switch, he was already running.

* * *

 **A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.


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